


Come And Get Your Love

by somethingnerdythiswaycomes



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Cisswap, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6730372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingnerdythiswaycomes/pseuds/somethingnerdythiswaycomes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of the requested ficlets I've posted to tumblr - some D/s, some not, a variety of pairings.  Pairing/prompt in chapter title.</p><p>New: wilson/latta fluff, wilson/latta 'TYS with too many miles between us', strome/marner 'TYS when you asked me to marry you'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Latta/Wilson - TYS when I was crying

**Author's Note:**

> "TYS" in the chapter heading means "Things You Said" bc there are a lot of those
> 
> I do not represent the real people presented as characters in this fic, nor do I make any claims about what they do or do not do in their real lives.

**#9: Things You Said When I Was Crying**

Of all the things tom expected to see when he came home from his run, the bottom of the list would definitely be Mike crying on the couch.

“You okay, bud?” Tom asks, freezing in the doorway.

“ _Fine_ ,” Mike forces out.  Tom winces; that’s the voice Mike uses when he’s trying not to let the guys’ chirping get to him.  Something must be wrong.   _Really_  wrong.  He didn’t cry when Papa told them he wouldn’t be starting the season, or when Brooksy got traded, or over all the times Mike’s been a healthy scratch.  Did he… did he get sent down?

“You sure about that?” Tom tries, easing into the room and sitting down on the couch next to Mike.  “We could, uh… I could text Burky and get him to get some Baked and Wired or something, to make you feel better?”

Tom still has his sneakers on.  Mike hasn’t said anything about it.

“What the fuck,” Mike grunts.  He wipes the back of his arm over his eyes.  “Tom, seriously?”

“You’re crying!” Tom blurts out.  “I don’t know what to do!”

“I fucking stubbed on my toe on that stupid lamp you wanted to get!”

For a second Tom doesn’t say anything.  Is it really…?

“You stubbed your toe and you’re crying about it?  You get slammed into the boards all the time!”

“Shut up!” Mike hisses, elbowing Tom right in the middle of his chest.  “It fucking hurt!”

“I offered to get _Baked and Wired for you_ ,” Tom says, rubbing his chest.  Mike has fucking pointy elbows.  But seriously; when’s the last time he ever offered to go there when Mike knows he likes Sprinkles better?

“You offered to send Burky to get Baked and Wired, Tom.”

“Still.”  Tom falls against Mike, putting all his weight on him.  He’s sweaty, and his jacket got soaked with rain halfway through.  He’s still not good at predicting the weather here.  “It was weird.  Don’t do it again.”

Mike scoffs.  “Okay, sure, next time I stub my toe I’ll make sure you’re not there to see the aftermath.”

“I meant the crying,” Tom says quietly.  “It was weird.”  He pauses, then says, “I couldn’t help.”

“You’ll figure it out.”  Mike replies, just as quietly.  “I mean, if you ever have to.”

Tom sighs and kisses Mike softly.  “Just don’t cry anymore.”

“All right, next time I’ll take your comfort level into account every time i feel like crying.”

Mike starts to get up, and Tom wraps his arms around Mike’s stomach, holding him on the couch.

“Tom,” Mike groans, collapsing back into the couch.  “C’mon, you’re all gross.”

“I’ve gotta protect you from the lamp, Mikey,” Tom tells him, and rolls on top of him.  He kisses him before Mike can slap him.


	2. Latta/Wilson - TYS that I wasn't meant to hear

**#20: things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear**

“Sometimes I just think about how bad an idea the whole thing was,” Mike is saying, when Tom opens the door to the bathroom.  He pretty much always takes a while in the hotel showers after a flight; he feels like he can never get the smell and the grime and everything off.  And the only shampoo he’s found that really makes his hair feel clean is still sitting in his bag, which is why he left the shower running, which is why he’s in this situation in the first place.

“Then why’d you do it in the first place?”

That’s Ovi.  He must’ve come by for something after Tom got in the shower, and Mike’s… talking to him.  About something serious.  There aren’t many serious things you talk to Ovi about; it’s only things that would earn that disintered, disappointing stare from Papa that would get you to go to Ovi about something.

“I don’t know, I think I just got caught up in… everything.”

“Then break it off.”

Fuck, fuck, they’re talking about him.  Tom wishes he could close the door, use the entire bottle of hotel shampoo and pretend he never heard any of this.  But he can’t.

“I can’t.  You’ve… you’ve seen him.”

“Not in the same way,” Ovi says, and any other time, Tom’d be in hysterics at how disgusted Ovi sounds.  Not at _them_ , they’ve been through that talk, but at the idea that he’d be attracted to one of them like they are to each other.

“I just wasn’t sure, and sometimes it still creeps up on me, what we’re doing.  That it’d ruin our careers.”

“Then break it off.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

Tom can’t listen to this.  He can’t stand here listening while Mike thinks he’s talking privately with Ovi.  He can’t do it.

He steps out into the room, holding his towel around his waist in a shaking hand.  He pauses, glances up and meets Mike’s eyes.  Mike looks terrified, pillow held tightly to his chest.  Ovi’s on the other bed, twisted around to look at Tom.

“Need my shampoo,” Tom mutters, putting his head down and hurrying over to his suitcase.

“Tom,” Mike says, standing up.

“I shouldn’t be too much longer,” Tom says, and goes back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

“Tom,” Mike calls through the door.  Tom drops his towel and climbs into the shower.

So he doesn’t hear the door opening, and he doesn’t know Mike’s in the bathroom until the shower curtain gets pulled back.

“Mike, what the–”

“You heard me, didn’t you?”

“Mike,” Tom pleads.  “Come on, can we wait until I get out of the shower–”

“Tom, I don’t want to break up with you, you didn’t hear it all!” Mike snaps, sounding desperate.  “I’m not - I’m not saying it’s a bad idea!”

“Sounds exactly like what you were saying.”

“No, I’m…” Mike pauses.  “I’m proposing!”

“What?” Tom asks, the shampoo slipping out of his hands.

“I - I was talking to Ovi about proposing and he asked if it was a good idea and I was talking about - times I’d had doubts but - not enough to break up with you!”

“You’re, you’re seriously proposing to me?” Tom asks.  Mike blushes and looks off to the side, and that means it’s legit.

“Where’s my ring, bud?” Tom asks, and he’s grinning this time.

“Shut up,” Mike mutters.  “It’s back home.”

Tom laughs and pulls Mike into the shower so he can kiss him.


	3. Ekblad/Panthers - TYS when you thought I was asleep

**#12: things you said when you thought i was asleep**

Aaron doesn’t usually fall asleep on the plane.  Every time he gets close to falling asleep, the turbulence will jolt him awake, or someone’ll start coughing, and he’ll be wide awake again.  You’d think he’d be better at sleeping through noise and movement after sharing a bed with Willie and Meg for months, but.  It hasn’t helped at all on the plane.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to sleep, though, sitting quiet and still, and lying down across a couple of his teammates’ laps whenever he winds up sitting in the undivided seats at the back of the plane.

Lu’s lap is a nice pillow, and he always pets Aaron’s hair.

He always figured they could tell if he was asleep or not, but with Willie back at home taking care of his concussion, apparently none of the other guys have been around him enough to know when he’s sleeping or just trying to.

“I think he’s taking it hard, Willie being injured,” one of them says.  Aaron thinks it’s Hubs.

“Of course he is.” And that’s Lu, pushing his fingers through Aaron’s hair.  “You know how close he and Willie are.”

“He’s not playing any worse,” Jaro says, his hands curling around Aaron’s ankles.

“That doesn’t mean he’s not hurt.”

“I didn’t say he’s _not.”_

Hubs shifts under Aaron’s back, and Aaron makes a noise.  The three of them quiet down, just the steady rhythm of Lu’s hands in Aaron’s hair and the weight of Jaro’s hands on his legs.  It’s nice.

“We can’t say anything to him,” Hubs says, at last.

“Do you think Willie’s noticed?”

“Of course he’s noticed.  He lives with him.”

“It’s not like he’s watching the games or coming around the locker room too much.”

“But Aaron still goes home to him.  If we’ve noticed, Willie has.”

“It’s not our job to tell Willie,” Jaro says.  “If - if Aaron gets worse.  Not until then.”

“But-” Hubs starts.

“As much as we have Aaron,” Lu says, “Willie has him _more_. We’re not on the same level with him and Meg, Hubby.  It’s just that we don’t have to, it’s that we _shouldn’t_.  It’s overstepping.  We can’t interfere in their relationship.  That’s why we couldn’t tell Aaron about what was going on with Willie when he was out.”

Aaron almost gives himself away by gasping out loud.  He thought no one knew about Willie’s injury, and the plan to go on IR for rest before it became IR-possibly-retiring, but everyone on the team _but him_  knew?  That’s… that’s something else.

Lu shifts under him, and Aaron holds still, hoping to hear something else that everyone’s been keeping secret from him.

And then Lu taps his forehead.  “You awake now, Aaron?”

Aaron frowns and opens his eyes, peering up at Lu.  “Yeah.”

Jaro huffs a laugh. “And how long’ve you been awake?”

Aaron stares up at the ceiling of the plane and its weird felt covering.  “You’re not lesser, you know.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hubs frowning.  Lu tugs a bit on Aaron’s hair.  “We are.  It’s fine.”

Aaron sighs and closes his eyes again.  He doesn’t really know what to say to convince them that, no, he doesn’t see them as _lesser_  in any way to Willie and Meg, except maybe that he loves them differently, and get different things from being with his team than being with Willie and Meg.

“Keep trying to go to sleep,” Lu says.  “We’ve still got a couple hours on the plane.”


	4. Backstrom/Ovechkin - TYS when you were drunk

**#11: things you said when you were drunk**

Nicky’s only been with the Caps for a season before Alex decides, yes, Nicky’s the one he wants.  He’s lying in bed, Nicky breathing heavily through his mouth across the hotel room, and he thinks, _i wish that was right next to me_.  Which, really, isn’t a thought Alex should be having about Nicky’s mouthbreathing.  And he stares at the ceiling, waiting for one of their alarms to go off, and thinks yeah, that’s exactly what he wants.  He wants Nicky.  Even the weird parts of Nicky that he keeps so well hidden from the media and even the rest of the team.

It’s a little bit devastating.

And then - after a win in Toronto, when they can all actually go out and celebrate - it’s just plain difficult.  Nicky’s cheeks are flushed and he’s listing against Alex and his hair looks so _soft_.  Alex almost reaches out and touches it, before he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

“Alex,” Nicky mutters, his breath wet and hot against Alex’s neck.

Alex swallows.  “Yes, Nicky?”

“You’re a good pillow.”

Alex smiles.  “Thank you, Nicky.”

Nicky rubs his face against Alex’s shoulder.  “Bet sleeping with you would be the best.”

And Alex knows what Nicky means.  He means sleeping with his head on Alex’s shoulder, like what happens sometimes on the long plane rides out to california.  Not sharing a bed, like Alex has been picturing, or–

Alex flushes bright red.  “You need water, Nicky.”

“No,” Nicky moans.  “Like being with you.”

“ _Really_  need water.”

Nicky looks up at Alex, his soft cheeks so _red_.  Alex is caught.

“You don’t like being with me?” Nicky asks, pouting just a little.

“Of course I do,” Alex tells him.  “Just–”

“I know you do.”  Nicky looks so damn _satisfied_.  “I know you love me.”

Alex freezes.  “Nicky…”

“Because I love you too.”  Nicky drops his head back onto Alex’s shoulder.  Alex stares down at his head, and wonders if maybe, he could touch him.

How did Nicky figure it out before Alex even realized it?


	5. McDavid/Strome - TYS that made me feel like shit

**#10: things you said that made me feel like shit**

“Another year in Erie,” Dylan sighs, flopping back on Connor’s bed, his legs hanging off the edge.  Connor’s curled up at the head of the bed, still half-asleep.  Dylan had called as soon as he got off the phone with the Coyotes staff, warning Connor that he was hopping in the car and coming over.

“Training camp doesn’t start for another week,” Connor answers muzzily, rubbing his eyes.

Dylan shrugs.  “They told me they’re interested in my long-term development, and they want me down for camp, but they’ll be sending me back.  I guessed they would, anyway.”

Connor reaches out and presses his toes to Dylan’s side.  “Sorry.”

Dylan shrugs again.  “It’s fine.  I knew they would.”

Connor peeks down at him over the edge of the blanket.  “You want a hug?”

Dylan turns a smile at Connor, crawling up the bed and dropping down next to him.  Connor wraps his arms around Dylan’s waist automatically, pulling him closer.

He doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t know how upset Dylan is, since he refuses to say.

“You’re not a failure, you know,” Connor says quietly.  “Because they’re not taking you from the start.”

“I know,” Dylan says, sounding confused.  He pulls back a little.  “What the fuck?”

Connor freezes.  Shit, that was _not_  the right thing to say.

“Do _you_  think I’m a failure because they won’t take me from the start?” Dylan asks, staring down at Connor.

“Of course not,” Connor says, pushing closer to Dylan.  “C’mon, Dyls…”

“Then why’d you say that?” Dylan asks, his brow still furrowed.  “You… everyone knows the Oilers are taking you.  I’m gonna be alone in Erie next year because–” he stops, swallowing heavily.  “Because I’m not good enough.”

“No, Dyls, no–” Connor tries to say.  Dylan tries to squirm out of Connor’s arms; Connor holds on tighter.  “Dylan, c’mon!  You know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Then what did you mean it like?!”

“I thought you were upset and I wanted to make you not upset!” Connor exclaims.  “I’m not good at this!”

Dylan doesn’t stop frowning, but he does stop trying to get away.  “I know you’re not good at this.”

“Shut up,” Connor mutters without any heat.

Dylan looks at Connor for a moment, touching his cheek.  “I wish you’d get sent back to Erie, too.  So we’d get another year together.”

“We’ll get lots of years together,” Connor says, and kisses him.  Dylan kisses back, his hand on Connor’s shoulder tightening.

As much as Connor wants NHL hockey _right now_ , he kind of wishes he had another year on Dylan’s team, too.


	6. Laich/Burakovsky - TYS too quietly

**#3: things you said too quietly:**

Andre’s at brooks’s house the morning brooks gets traded.

He didn’t know what it was, at first.  He wasn’t so close with the guys that left after last season, and he wasn’t there when they first got the news of the trade.  But this time he’s lying in Brooks’s bed, half-asleep, when Brooks sits up and answers his phone.

Andre doesn’t hear most of the conversation, honestly.  All he really hears clearly is, at the end, when Brooks says, “Thank you for calling, and for all the opportunities you’ve given me here.”

“Who was it?” Andre asks, when Brooks lies back down next to him.

“Trotz,” Brooks says, his beard scratching against Andre’s cheek.  “I’m going to Toronto.”

That wakes Andre up.  “What?”

Brooks holds him tighter.  “They traded me to the Leafs.”

“ _What?”_

 _“_ I don’t know how to be clearer, Andre.”

Andre wants to scowl, to hit him on the chest or something.  He should.  He really, really wants to, because Brooks shouldn’t be treating him like a child right now.  But Brooks is leaving, and that has to be harder for Brooks than it is for Andre.

“When are you leaving?” Andre asks, staring at Brooks’s bare chest.

“I’ve got a plane tonight,” Brooks replies.  He puts a hand on Andre’s hair, petting his curls carefully.  “And then - the Leafs are here, in a couple days.”

Andre presses closer to Brooks, smushing his face against Brook’s chest, trying to get as close to him as he can.  “I don’t want you to leave,” he mutters.

“I don’t want to leave either,” Brooks tells him.  “Believe me, Andre.”

“I know,” Andre says.  “I love you.”

Brooks breathes out against Andre’s hair.  He doesn’t say anything.  And - that’s the first time Andre has said that, told Brooks how he felt, and Brooks doesn’t say anything back.

Andre wants to leave, or at least fall asleep.  He can’t do either.

Brooks kisses the top of his head, after a while.  “You don’t have to give me an answer now.”

Andre frowns.  “You didn’t ask me anything.”

Brooks tugs at Andre’s hair a little bit, trying to coax Andre up to look at him.  Andre goes willingly. “After you said you love me.”

“You didn’t say it back,” Andre says, looking up at him.  “It’s okay, if you’re not…”

“I said I love you, too,” Brooks says, touching Andre’s cheek.  “And I asked if you wanted to marry me.”

Andre’s eyes widen.  “What?”

“Marry me,” Brooks says again.  “I know I’m leaving, but…”

“Of course,” Andre replies, a grin lighting up his face.  “Yeah, I’ll marry you.”

He kisses Brooks, and Brooks kisses back, and he doesn’t think about Brooks leaving tonight and the long weeks until the end of the season.


	7. Ekblad/Panthers - TYS when we were on top of the world

**#21:**   **things you said when we were on top of the world**

They make the _fucking playoffs._ Everyone goes back to their stalls, hollering and pushing against each other as they pull off helmets and gloves and skates.  Aaron leaned into every touch and kiss that his team has turned on him since the end of the game, his mind turned fuzzy and his whole body warm.  He struggles out of his pads, with a little help from Jaro and Hubs, stripping down to his under armor before most of the guys have taken off their pants.  He walks to the center of the room, stopping above the cat’s head of the logo on the floor, and drops to his knees.

Everything goes quiet.  Aaron has his eyes on the Panthers logo, his hands on his thighs, but he can tell that mostly everyone’s turned towards him, watching, still only half-undressed.

Lu comes up to him first, putting his hand on top of Aaron’s head and tilting it back so Aaron’s looking up at him.  Lu’s grinning, when Aaron can focus his gaze enough to be able to tell.

“Excited for the playoffs?” Lu asks.

“Yeah,” Aaron sighs, digging his fingers into his thighs.  “Lu…”

“What do you want?”

“Just wanna…” Aaron trails off, tilting his head into Lu’s hand.  It’s not _sexual_  energy that he’s feeling, really.  He’s just so happy and excited and a little sad that Willie isn’t there but mostly just so happy.  He loves his team.  He just wants to kneel here and have everyone around him and touching him and happy and smiling.

“You’re good,” Lu tells him, scratching his fingers against Aaron’s scalp, sending shivers down his spine.  “The best.”

“You got us here,” Jaro says, pushing out of his stall and walking over, running his fingers over the leather of Aaron’s collar.  “Couldn’t do it without you.”

The rest of the team pipes up - calling praise and compliments from different parts of the room, most of them getting up and crowding closer, jostling each other to get closer to him.  Lu’s hands slip out of his hair, and Barkov’s take their place.  Hubs, one of the few switches on the team, drops down next to him, sitting on the ground instead of kneeling, and leans against Aaron.

Aaron grins up at all of them, and can’t imagine somewhere he’d rather be.


	8. McDavid/Eichel - TYS with too many miles between us

**#15: things you said with too many miles between us**

Connor would say that he and Jack talk a normal amount, for people who only know each other because they were competing for the first spot in the draft.  Connor was a little surprised, maybe, when Jack kept texting him and facetiming him even after the draft, and the rookie showcase, when there wasn’t really any reason for them to talk.  He would’ve guessed that Jack getting picked second would’ve made their relationship strained, but it was almost like the tensions melted away as soon as their fate was decided.

Connor’s glad for it.  It’s always nice to have a friend who understands the pressure he’s under.  And Dylan’s great, he really is, but Jack _gets it_.

But after he gets injured they’re not equal, not even a semblance of it, and Connor doesn’t want to answer his texts or accept his facetimes (or, later, emails and phone calls) just to hear about Jack playing hockey while he can’t.

He’s expecting a call from Nuge, after he and Ebs and Hallsy went out to get food and promised to bring something back for Connor,  He doesn’t even look at the caller ID before he answers it.

“ _Finally_  you answer one of my calls.”

Oh fuck.

“Hey, Jack,” Connor says quietly.  “I’m, uh, expecting another call–”

“So you only answered because you thought I was someone else?” Jack snorts.  “Real nice, Connor.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Connor protests.  “I just…”

“You’re jealous I’m playing, I get it.”

“I’m not–”

“I _said_  I get it.”

Connor huffs. “Okay, you get it.  What’re you calling about.”

“I can’t just call to talk?”

Connor flops back on his bed.  “I guess.”

Because - here’s the thing: Connor’s been trying not to, but he really likes Jack.  More than he’s supposed to, differently than he likes anyone else, and he’s _tried,_ he really has, to push it away.  But a little thrill goes through him every time he gets a text or a call or anything.  It’s hard.  Like, the talking to Jack and pretending everything’s fine, _and_  dealing with the thrill of arousal that refuses to go away.

“What did you want to talk about?” Connor asks, after Jack hasn’t said anything.

“There’s some other reason you didn’t want to talk to me.”

Connor sighs and rolls his eyes.  It’s true, but there’s no way Jack would be able to tell.  Without hockey, it was harder and harder to keep his mind off of Jack, especially when the meds made his mind all fuzzy.

“And I think it’s the same reason that I keep trying to get you to talk to me.”

Connor’s breath catches.  “Jack?”

“Connor–”

“Can we switch to facetime?” Connor blurts out.  “If… I want to see your face.”

“Are you going to answer again if I hang up now?”

“Yes,” Connor promised.  Jack hung up, and a few seconds later, the facetime request came through.

Connor hesitated for a minute, and then accepted it.

“I was worried you wouldn’t,” Jack says, as soon as his face appears on the screen.  He looks tired, like all the rookies at this time of the season.

Connor smiles shakily.  “I thought about it.”

Jack nods and stares straight at him, with enough intensity that Connor wants to look away.

“Do you know why I kept trying to get in touch with you?” Jack asks, finally.

“I might,” Connor replied, licking his lips.  “Because you said it’s the same for me.”

“I’m hoping it’s the same.”

“Just say it,” Connor begs, holding his phone so tightly he thinks the case creaks.  “C’mon, Jack.”

“I like you.”

“As…”

“As more than a friend.”  Jack’s face turns blotchy red as he says it.  Connor wants to make a joke about Jack being allergic to feelings, but Jack keeps going.  “I’ve liked you for a while, but with the draft and everything, I didn’t accept it.  And now - I just - it’s time to tell you.  Even though you’re across the country, I still - I want to date you.”

Connor’s eyes widen.  He didn’t think Jack would just _say it_ like that.

“I really want you to be my boyfriend,” Jack says, as if Connor could have misunderstood him.

“I want that, too,” Connor says, barely hearing himself because he’s still so surprised.

Jack’s face lights up with a smile - just as smug and pleased as his smile always is.  “Of course you do.”

Connor flushes.  “Well, of course _you_  want to date the number one draft pick.”

Jack throws his head back and laughs.  Connor grins; he likes knowing that he can joke about that without Jack getting all sensitive on him.

“Just don’t ignore my calls again.”

“I won’t,” Connor promises, smiling at Jack through the screen.

The only bad part of this is he’ll have to wait until the Sabres come to Edmonton to be able to kiss him.


	9. Gaudreau/Flames - TYS at the kitchen table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specifically: Johnny is paired with Joe Colborne, Lance Bouma, Mark Giordano, Brandon Bollig, Sean Monahan, Josh Jooris, and Dougie Hamilton.

**13\. things you said at the kitchen table**

Sometimes, when they spend the night together at Sean and Lance’s house, they eat breakfast together.  They’re the only ones that have a reliably stocked kitchen, and Lance is pretty good at making eggs.  Better than Johnny, anyway, and the others don’t even come close.

The breakfast counter isn’t big enough for Johnny, Sean, Lance, Joe, Gio, Dougie, and Brandon, so they spread out over the couch in the tv room with their plates of eggs and pieces of toast (thanks, Sean).

Sean’s bed isn’t big enough either, and the guys always have to do rock paper scissors to see who gets to sleep there with Johnny.  Sean got kicked out last night, under protest.  Some of them look at the schedule and just come over for breakfast, deciding the sleeping hassle isn’t worth it.

“I think I’m gonna get a bigger bed,” Joe says, offhandedly, and then shovels a bite of eggs into his mouth.

“What for?” Johnny asks, nibbling a piece of toast.

“For all of us,” Joe replies, blinking a little bit.

“Dedication,” Sean says, deadpan, and offers him a fistbump.

“For real?” Johnny asks, still confused.

“Yeah, like,” Joe starts, and then shrugs.  “It’d be nice if we didn’t have to kick people out.”

Sean, Dougie, and Lance all nodded vehemently.  Johnny buried a laugh in his eggs.

“I don’t think you can buy a bed big enough for seven hockey players,” Gio says, frowning a little as he thinks it over.  “Like, three of us can fit on a king, four if we squeeze.”

“Two kings,” Dougie offers, then goes back to shoveling eggs into his mouth.

“You don’t have to,” Johnny says, flushing a little.  He scoots closer to Joe, ducking under his arm to press against him.  “That’s…”

“It’ll be nice,” Lance says, and shrugs.  “The rest of us could help?”

Now it’s Joe’s turn to flush bright red.  “You don’t have to, I wanted to - I mean, I just decided…”

Johnny leans up and kisses Joe firmly.  “It’s sweet.  If you want to, I won’t stop you.  But we’re helping.”

“Okay,” Joe replies, smiling shyly.  “Sure.”

“Now that you kissed one you’ve gotta kiss us all,” Sean says, and even though Johnny rolls his eyes, that is the rule, so he hands his plate to Joe and stands up.


	10. Gaudreau/Flames - Things you didn't say at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specifically: Johnny is paired with Joe Colborne, Lance Bouma, Mark Giordano, Brandon Bollig, Sean Monahan, Josh Jooris, and Dougie Hamilton.

**5\. things you didn’t say at all**

Johnny never really felt the need to sit down with the guys and settle what it is they’re doing.

It started off with just him and whoever he was playing with that night.  And then he started staying the night, with some of the guys.  And then one night Sean and Lance both wanted some time with him, and when he raised an eyebrow and said they had to pick between themselves, they’d shrugged and Sean had asked, “Why not both?”

And then it’d been guys that didn’t live together, that wound up sharing them, and then three guys, and then four, and then spending the night with one and waking up to another five sitting in the tv room waiting for breakfast and a cuddle.

They ordered take out - him, Lance, Sean, Brandon, Gio, Dougie, Josh and Joe - and sprawled across the living room and dining room table.  Well, the food’s all on the dining room table, and everyone’s either sitting on the sectional or on the floor in front of the sectional.

While he’s eating his fried rice and cashew chicken, with Sean pressed close to one side and Josh to the other, with Joe sitting on the floor in front of him, he realizes - he realizes he hasn’t slept with anyone else in months.  Since the summer, at least.  Since the middle of the summer.

Has he ever even hooked up with someone in Calgary who wasn’t on the team?

“When’s the last time you fucked someone else?” Johnny asks, looking up at Josh.

Josh chokes on his egg roll.

The whole room is silent, until Brandon laughs and says, “Really, Johnny?”

“What?” Johnny asks, frowning at them.

“You asked him the last time he’s fucked someone besides you?” Sean asks, still with that little half-smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, looking around.  “It’s not a weird question.  I’m just wondering.”

“None of us use condoms,” Lance says.  “Did you think we were trying to give you an STD or something?”

Johnny nods, considering it.  “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”

“You know, if you’re seeing other people–” Dougie starts.

“I’m not,” Johnny says, grinning a little, and hiding it by looking down at his food.  “At least not since the beginning of the summer.  I don’t even know if that time counted.  So…”

Josh leans over and kisses him softly. “Cool.”

“You know the rule,” Sean says, leaning in for his own kiss.

Johnny kisses Sean, and Joe pulls him down for a kiss, too.  He has to get up to get the rest of them.

Maybe they don’t need a “talk,” or maybe they will need one some day, but he has his guys, and they have The Rule, and that’s enough for now.


	11. Burakovsky/Holtby - TYS after you kissed me

**14\. things you said after you kissed me**

Braden’s a little surprised it took them this long to kiss, if he’s being honest.

They only really got close this season, when Andre bounced across the dressing room after their first win, in only his under armor, and knelt down for him.  He just sat there, his face flushed, that wide grin aimed at Braden, until Braden ran a hand through his hair and ordered Andre to take a shower and then come back.

They don’t kiss until the end of the season, when Braden’s got his record-tying win on the last game he’s going to play before the playoffs.  Braden’s sitting in his stall, mostly out of his pads, when Andre bounces over in his under armor, so reminiscent of that first time at the beginning of the season.

“Record!” Andre exclaims, throwing himself onto Braden’s lap.  Braden laughs, and grabs hold of Andre’s waist so he doesn’t fall back to the floor.

“Record-tying,” Braden tells him, but he’s smiling.

“Still impressive,” Andre says, nuzzling into Braden’s neck.  “So sweaty.”

“So’re you,” Braden says, petting the back of Andre’s head.  His curls are matted down to his skull and still damp.  He can’t wait until after Andre’s showered, and his hair’s dried again, and forming this fluffy cloud around his head.  Braden likes playing with his curls when Andre’s sucking him off.

“We should shower,” Andre says, pulling back a bit and licking his lips, like he’s reading Braden’s mind.  Braden stares at his lips, still wet from Andre’s tongue, dark red because of how much Andre bit his lips during the game.

And Andre leans in and kisses him, his hand fisted in Braden’s shirt.  Braden kisses back, cupping the back of Andre’s head, holding him close.

After a long moment, Andre pulls back.  He stares at Braden for a moment, and, slowly, a grin breaks over his face.  Braden’s smiling, too, but it’s smaller.

“Your beard’s itchy,” Andre says, skritching his fingers over Braden’s chin.

“Not shaving it,” Braden replies, and kisses him again.

They can wait a bit to shower.


	12. McDavid/Eichel - TYS when we were on top of the world

**21\. things you said when we were on top of the world**

There’s something really fucking special about getting three goals between them, three points each, in the game to win the World Cup of Hockey.  Especially on Team North America, who nobody thought would get far at all, and as two women on the team, and the two youngest players.

It’s amazing.  It’s _amazing_.  Jack doesn’t know if she’s drunk on the win, the points, or the champagne they’re drinking back in the dressing room.

Connor’s across the room, hat on backwards, in a sports bra and sweatpants, a can of beer in hand.  Jack’s pretty much the same, though she’s wearing shorts instead of sweats.  She’s struck with the sudden need to go over to her.

Before she really thinks it through, she’s up and stumbling across the room. If nothing else, college prepared her for working through a crowd when she’s on her way to shitfaced.

“Davo,” Jack shouts, throwing her arms around Connor’s shoulders, pulling her back against her.  Connor makes some weird panicked noise, spilling her beer down her front, and glares up at Jack.

In true drunk-Jack form, she says the first thing that comes to mind when she sees Connor, in a gold medal and championship hat, scowling at her.

“Fucking love you,” Jack says, shaking Connor’s shoulder.  “Amazing fucking game, perfect fucking passes, that _goal_ , shit, Connor, made me so wet.”

Connor chokes, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.  “What?!”

“C’mon, doesn’t good hockey ever get you wet?”

“Oh my god,” Connor says, her entire face bright red.  “Jack–”

“Your hands are fucking filthy,” Jack says, and licks the salt of the beer from her lips.  She sucks in a breath, decides _fuck it,_  and adds. “Bet there’s other ways they could get me wet, too.”

Connor says, faintly, “Oh my god,” again, but that same heat, the electric surge that’s been passing between them since the beginning of the tournament, sparks to life again.

“Yeah?” Jack says.  Even when she’s drunk, and high on winning, she’s not forcing anyone into anything.

“Yeah,” Connor breathes, her eyes flicking down to Jack’s lips.  Jack grins, quick and sharp, and kisses her.

Connor tastes like victory.


	13. Ekblad/Mitchells - TYS when I was crying

**9\. things you said when i was crying**

When they get eliminated from the playoffs, Aaron sits in his stall and wishes that Willie had traveled with them for the game.

He rests his head against the back of the stall, staring up at the ceiling, his hands placed carefully on his thighs.  He feels like one of Meg’s souffles - held together, but delicate, and the smallest disturbance will make him sink into himself.

It’s been tough, playing through the regular season without Willie - and the playoffs, his first playoff series… he’s just glad they’d had home advantage, because he doesn’t think he’s ever dropped as hard as he did after that first game.

He just wants to get on the plane and fly home and fall into Willie and Meg’s bed and not get up for a couple days.  Or weeks.  He’s not picky.

He stays in that weird balance through getting undressed, through taking off the tag with the team logo on it from his collar, through the guys giving him the now-customary pats and hugs and kisses as he heads into the shower.  He sits in one of the normal seats, by himself, and listens to music and stares out the window.

They get home late.  He takes a cab from the airport; Meg had dropped him off.

He didn’t really expect Meg and Willie to be awake when he got home, even if he hoped they would be.  The front of the house is dark, and Pinot’s settled down in the living room.  He sighs and heads up the stairs, leaving his bag in the hall, and easing the door to Meg and Willie’s room open as quietly as he can.

“Hey, honey,” Meg says, from where she’s sitting up in bed.

Aaron blinks.  She’s got her kindle out, reading something, and Willie stretched out next to her with his head in her lap.

“Hey, Meg,” Aaron whispers, walking around the bed to her free side and crawling up onto the bed, still in his suit.

“You should put on pajamas,” Meg tells him, but she doesn’t force him out of the bed, and when Aaron rests his head on her shoulder, she runs her fingers through his hair.

“You did well, Aaron,” she says quietly.  “No one could’ve asked for more from you.”

Aaron doesn’t respond, he just presses his face to her shoulder and starts to cry.

He feels a hand take hold of his - larger than Meg’s, and with callouses he recognizes.

“It sucks,” Willie says, his voice rough like it always is when he wakes up.  “It does every time.”

“Yeah,” Aaron chokes out, unburying his face just enough to look down at Willie. He has the tilt of a smile on his lips, and his eyes are shiny like he’s about to cry.

“And there’re 29 teams that wind up feeling like shit, because every year we hope that we’ll be the ones to make it all the way to the end.  It’s worth it, just for the hope of getting there - and when you finally make it, it’s…” he trails off and shakes his head.  “It’s like nothing else.”

“You’ll get there,” Meg says to Aaron, petting his head gently.  “But you can keep crying, if you want.”

Aaron nods and squeezes Willie’s hand, leaning more on Meg.

There’re things he wants to say - how much he wishes that Willie had been there, on the ice or in the stands, how he wishes _Meg_  had been there, how he wishes they hadn’t been eliminated, that Willie hadn’t been injured, that they hadn’t all worked a little bit harder.  How much he loves them, and doesn’t know what he’ll do if they’re not there next year to get him through the season.

There’ll be time to say it all.  They’ve got a long off-season ahead of them.


	14. Saad/Toews - TYS with too many miles between us

**15\. things you said with too many miles between us**

Brandon doesn’t know why it’s all bubbling up now.  It’s February, so close to the end of the season.  He’s made it through almost the whole season without Jonny there next to him.

Well, they saw each other every time their teams played, and they spent the three days of Christmas break together.  But Brandon’d been counting on seeing Jonny at the All Star Game.  As soon as they both knew they were going, Brandon had circled the date on the calendar, counted down to it every morning, looking at himself and his collar in the mirror.

Maybe that’s it.  He’d been expecting to spend time with Jonny, _a whole weekend_ , and then Jonny gets sick.

Brandon knows the signs of subdrop - especially after Jonny forwarded him an article and quizzed him on it - and he doesn’t think that’s what this is.  He’s just… sad.  He doesn’t need to sub, he doesn’t need his Dom, he just misses his boyfriend.

He checks the google calendar - which Jonny insisted on so they’d know when the other was free - and facetimes Jonny.

“Hey,” Jonny says, the little crease in his forehead he gets every time he has to figure out facetime.

“Hey,” Brandon replies, already feeling like a weight was lifting off his chest.

He doesn’t say anything else, and after a moment, Jonny quirks a smile.

“Was there something you were calling about?” Jonny asks.

Brandon shakes his head.  “Not anything in particular I just… miss you.”

Jonny sighs softly, and leans back against the headboard.  It’s only 9, on a non-practice day, so Jonny’s still probably only in his boxer briefs, drinking a protein shake and watching the news.  Brandon’s not much better, though he is cooking his own breakfast, so he’s sitting in his underwear in the kitchen instead.

“I miss you, too,” Jonny says, and takes a sip of his shake.  Brandon laughs a little, leaning on the counter and staring fondly at Jonny on his phone.  “What?”

“I guessed you’d be drinking a protein shake in bed,” Brandon says, still smiling to himself.  “Your routines never change.”

“Of course they don’t, they’re routines,” Jonny says, frowning a little.

“I know,” Brandon says, “It’s just funny that I still know them.”

Jonny huffs a laugh and doesn’t say anything.

Suddenly, Brandon says, “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Jonny replies immediately, his face softening.

“I…” Brandon starts, pauses, and collects his thoughts.  “I’d love you, even if you weren’t a Dom.  If you weren’t my Dom.  Even if we were both subs or we didn’t work, sexually, I’d still love you.”

“Me too, Brandon,” Jonny says.  Brandon can see him shift, like he was going to reach out for Brandon, and remembered too late that he can’t.  “No matter what.”

Brandon nods, biting his lip.  “Good.”

“As soon as the season ends,” Jonny says, his cheeks burning red, “I’m going to kiss you so hard.  We’re not leaving the house for days.”

“Looking forward to it,” Brandon says, hooking his fingers in his collar, the same way he does every time he wishes Jonny were with him.


	15. Gaudreau/Flames - TYS when you were drunk

**#11: things you said when you were drunk**

Once the season ends, they go home and get spectacularly drunk.  Joe did get the bigger bed, so they choose his place (with its two kings), so when they inevitably pass out it can be all together.

Johnny hasn’t even stood up to get his own drink since they came home.  Gio pushed him down onto the couch and told him to sit, while the rest of them got cups and pulled everything out.  Sean had handed him a screwdriver - mixed just the way he liked, in Jersey Housewife fashion - before anyone had gotten their own together.

And then they got wasted.

It takes barely an hour - and, okay, more than three screwdrivers - before johnny’s spread out on the couch with his head in josh’s lap and his legs over Brandon’s.

He doesn’t always think about it, but he loves how much bigger they are than him.  He loves having this group of guys to just surround him, and he likes knowing that, even when he’s following their orders, they’re still at his beck and call.

He grabs for Josh’s hand and holds it tightly.  Josh’s hand is so much bigger than his, his palm wider, his fingers thicker.  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to get himself back under control.

Yeah, four screwdrivers in, that’s not fucking working.

“I like how big you are,” he announces, maybe a little louder than he intended.

At least three of them choke on their drinks.  Brandon starts laughing.

“Right now?” Joe blurts out.  “I don’t think I can get it up right now.”

Johnny throws his head back and laughs, and laughs even harder when Joe asks, confused, “What did I say?”

“It was general appreciation,” Sean guesses, the only sign that he’s as drunk as the rest of them being his red cheeks.

“Gen’ral ‘ppreciation,”Johnny slurs, tilting his head to nuzzle against Josh’s hip.

“Johnny likes being teeny tiny,” Lance teases, crawling over Sean to nuzzle against Johnny’s hair.  “Itty bitty teeny weeny.”

“Yeah,” Johnny sighs, squirming a little on the couch.  “Like it.”

“Fuck,” Dougie mutters.  “I don’t think I can get it up either.”

Johnny takes another drink, smiling around the rim of his glass.  They’ve got Joe’s giant bed now.  They’re all gonna stay together for the night, and in the morning, once the hangovers are dealt with, their dicks are gonna be working just fine.  Johnny can’t wait.


	16. Holtby/Burakovsky - TYS When I Was Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fits into the All We Are Is/soft dom Braden Holtby timeline

“What do _you_  want to do, Andre?” Braden asks.

Andre sucks in a deep breath, as deep as he can, and lets it out slowly.  He doesn’t want to rush his answer.

They’re curled up on Braden’s bed - Andre has his wrists bound together in front of him, to ground him, to keep him pulled together.  Their season just ended, and they keep meeting up with the team every night at Nicky’s house to pile together in the living room and mourn the season.  But Ovi, Kuzy, and Orly are headed to Worlds tomorrow, and Team Sweden called and asked if he wanted to fly out and play for them.

He’d told them he’d call them back.  They’d given him until 3 pm, DC time.  It’s 2:30.

“I don’t want summer to start yet,” Andre says finally.

“Is it healthy for you to go to Worlds?” Braden asks, his gaze boring into Andre’s.

“I don’t know,” Andre whispers.  “I’m not injured, nothing’s strained or torn…”

“Would it make you drop?”

“I don’t know,” Andre replies again.  “I haven’t played at Worlds before.  I haven’t played in another competition after getting eliminated from a different one before.  I don’t know, Braden.”  He pulls against the rope around his wrists, trying to pull himself back from the brink as tear prick at his eyes.  “I have no idea what it’ll do to me, I don’t know what I’m doing, Braden.  You won’t be there with me, Nicky won’t, at least Kuzy, Orly, and Ovi will all be together–”

He couldn’t hold it back, then.  Andre could only hunch his shoulders and cry, letting out the stress of the season, of their failed playoff run, of making this decision, of wondering what it would be like to play in a world tournament without Braden at his side supporting him.

“Andre, you can just shake your head or nod.  If you didn’t have to worry about anything else - nothing else besides Worlds - would you want to play?”

Andre nodded, still crying.

Braden pressed closer to him, one arm going around Andre’s waist, the other cupping his cheek, moving his head until he was forced to look into Braden’s eyes.  He looked softer now - still serious, but gentle, and caring, and all the things that Andre loved about him.

“Whatever you need to be able to play,” Braden said, softly, but with threads of steel in his voice, “Whatever it is, I’ll do for you.  I don’t care what it is.  If you want to play, you’re going to play.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Andre whispered, through his tears.

Braden smiled, and pressed a kiss to Andre’s lips.  Andre kissed back, squirming closer to Braden, until his bound hands were pressed into Braden’s chest.

Braden pulled back barely an inch, and asked, “What do you need?”

“More control,” Andre replied.

Braden frowned slightly. “I can step back, let you–”

“No, no,” Andre corrected quickly.  “I mean, I’d like _you_ to have more.”

Braden licked his lips.  “How?”

“I like when you pick my clothes,” Andre said quietly, looking off to the side.  It’s so _weird,_ to be so direct to Braden, and look right into his eyes.  “And what to eat, sometimes.  Our routine.”

“Like our pregame routine,” Braden said.

Andre nodded quickly.  “And now, we’re not going to have that.  I need…”

Braden kissed him gently.  “I know.  You need a new routine.”

Andre smiled and kissed him back.  Braden knew exactly what to say, and exactly when to say it.

They’d make it through Worlds, even when they’re on opposite sides of the globe.


	17. Eric Staal/Skinner - TYS When You Thought I Was Asleep

Jeff flew to New York after the end of the regular season.  He and Eric decided he would, once it was clear the Canes weren’t going to be making the playoffs.  Jeff was going to fly to New York and stay with Eric while the Rangers tried for the Cup, and then when they were done, for better or worse, they were going to go on vacation together.  After being separated at the trade deadline, they needed some time during the off-season of dedicated time for their relationship.

Jeff got to Eric’s apartment - a one-bedroom Marc had helped him find, once Marc got sick of Eric camping out on his couch - while Eric was at practice.  Eric had sent him a key as soon as he’d gotten the apartment; it was easy to let himself in, drop his bags in the living room, and collapse on Eric’s bed, letting the weight of the season drag him into sleep.

He didn’t know how long he slept - but he woke up with Eric pressed up against his back, his arms around Jeff’s waist, his breath warm and wet against the back of Jeff’s neck.

“I missed you so much,” Eric murmured.  Jeff kept his eyes shut, stayed relaxed.  Eric was so rarely completely unguarded around him; it happened more since the trade, when they had less time together, when Eric wasn’t in a position of authority over him.  Jeff still cherished these moments when they happened.

Eric pressed a kiss to Jeff’s shoulder.  “I’m so happy to have you here, be able to hold you again.  It wasn’t the same through the screen.”

Jeff smiled to himself, and got ready to turn around in Eric’s arms and kiss him, _finally_ , when Eric spoke again.

“I can’t wait until I can call you my husband.”

Jeff had to work to keep his breath from catching.  Eric had his lips pressed to Jeff’s neck again, brushing over his skin as he whispered, “You’ll love how I’m going to ask.  I’ve got it all planned out already.  I have the ring, I made the dinner reservations.  As soon as you booked your flight I planned it all out.  You’ll never see it coming, I’m so _excited_.”

Jeff’s heart sank.  He knew, now.  Eric was so excited about making it a surprise for him - about taking him for a nice dinner, probably, and asking him to marry him, and having it be a _surprise._  Jeff would have to pretend he didn’t see it coming, and Eric would see right through him, and Jeff would have to explain it all and ruin the whole night.

But he couldn’t just “wake up” _now_ , because then Eric would know that he was pretending to be asleep this whole time.

Eric yawned, then, and nuzzled into Jeff’s shoulder.  Perfect.  Jeff shifted, twisting a little in Eric’s hold to look back at him.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey,” Eric whispered back, leaning forward to kiss him.

Jeff kissed back, his eyes sliding shut again.  He’d missed kissing Eric, the soft scratch of his stubble, how their mouths fit together.

“You just wake up?”

“Yeah,” Jeff replied, pushing at Eric’s arms until he can turn around all the way and press against his chest.  “You just get back from practice?”

“A couple minutes ago,” Eric said.  “I’ve got us reservations for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Cool,” Jeff said, kissing Eric again so he wouldn’t see the look on his face.

He’d need to work on his surprised face before tomorrow night.


	18. Holtby/Burakovsky - TYS when you thought I was asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also fits into the All We Are Is/soft dom Braden Holtby timeline

They get into the habit of skyping every night, while Andre’s in Russia.  It helps to replace the routine that they lost when the season ended, gives them a sort of transition into the off-season.

Andre plays a game or has practice, goes to dinner with the team, hangs with them for a bit, then goes back to his room and opens up his laptop while he changes into his pajamas.

He wound up with a single, because he was such a late addition to the team.  It’s made it easier for them, not having to worry about bothering a roommate when they’re skyping.

And Braden doesn’t mind fitting his routine around Andre’s, not while Andre’s the one still playing, and when Andre was the one to adjust to Braden’s schedule during the season.  He’s in the support position while Andre’s at Worlds, and he loves it.  He loves checking the time and seeing that it’s time to open his computer and start browsing, because pretty soon he’ll hear the little whooshing sound that means Andre came online.

“How was dinner?” Braden asks, when their call connects.

“Great,” Andre replies with a smile, settling on the bed.  He’s wearing one of Braden’s shirts, an old one with a deer emblazoned on the chest, but the whole thing’s worn out and stretched over his shoulders, hanging loose around his torso.  “I had this really good salmon thing.  It came with potatoes.  I wrote down the name, so I could ask Ovi if he knew how to make it, or if there was a place in DC that made it.”

Braden smiles and leans back on the arm of the couch, turning up the brightness of his laptop against the sun coming in the window.  It’s only 4:30 in DC; even though Andre’s getting ready for bed, Braden’s still only half-through his day.

“Congrats on the goal, too,” Braden adds.  “I bet they’re glad they called you out there.”

Andre ducks his head, but Braden can see the red on his cheeks.  “It’s just nice to contribute something.”

“It’s great to see you playing.”

“It’s great to _be_ playing.”

Braden watches him for a moment, tracing the curves of Andre’s face, his neck, down to the frayed collar of _his_  shirt.  He’s taken to imagining a collar around Andre’s neck.  A medium brown, maybe, lighter than most go for.  He think Andre’d look gorgeous in it, with a bronze buckle, maybe some D-rings to use when he’s tying him up.  A tag, because Braden doesn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from claiming Andre.  He might not be able to wear it on the ice, but he could leave it in the dressing room when they go out to play, or he could have a smaller, plainer one for games–

“I miss you,” Andre says, breaking Braden out of his thoughts.

“Hmm,” Braden replies, sliding lower on the couch and balancing the laptop on his stomach.  “I miss you, too, Andre.”

He closes his eyes to slits; the sun shines through the blinds from this angle, but it stretches out his back nicely, and he can see Andre perfectly.  It’s everything he wants in a lazy, off-season afternoon.

“Braden?” Andre asks quietly.

It’s not unusual for the two of them to do their own thing on these calls.  There isn’t really that much for them to talk about.  Andre has some books he bought during the season that he’s trying to catch up on reading now, and Braden’s still caught in the afternoon-nap routine from the season.

He makes a sound, though, trying to show that he’s still awake.

Andre must not get that that’s what it is, because he smiles, and says, “Still napping in the middle of the day.”

Braden wants to correct him, but DC is warm, especially in a sweatshirt and flannel pants, and he’s comfortable, and he’s content to just watch Andre watch him.

“So many of the subs on these teams have collars,” he says, staring at his screen in the way that means he’s looking at Braden.  “Not just Ovi.  There’s a lot of them that I know have - people, too.  I know you met Taylor Hall at the all star game, and he’s been uncollared for years.”

Braden doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean.  Andre’s hand is on his neck, now, pressed gently against the base of his throat.

“I hope you ask me soon.  Nicky said he waited a while to ask Ovi, but I don’t want you to wait.  I don’t want to be like Taylor Hall and wonder if I’ll ever get one from you.”

“When you get back,” Braden murmurs.

Andre jumps, a blush filling his cheeks.  “Y-you’re awake?”

Braden opens his eyes a little more.  “Mmmhmm.”

“So you heard all that?”

“Andre,” Braden says, sitting up a little.  “When you get back, we’ll go look.”

Andre takes a second, his face tight with confusion, before it clears with a brilliant smile.  “Really?”

“Of course,” Braden replies.  “I think we could find a nice, golden brown one.”

Andre laid back in bed, taking his laptop with him.  “Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it?”

“Of course.”

Since before Worlds, since before the end of the season - since Andre said the play collar didn’t feel right.  Because it didn’t look right.  It was too flimsy, too dark, too loose.  It wasn’t Andre, and they both knew it.  As soon as Andre was home, they’d find the perfect collar for him.


	19. Staals/Skinner - TYS at 1 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though it's Staals/Skinner there is NO INCEST - it's polyamory where each of them are in a relationship with him but not with each other

They’re all done for the season, one way or anything.  Jordy and Jeff were the first to get up to the cabin, Jordy keeping a firm hand on Jeff’s arm pretty much the entire flight, and then the drive up to the cabin from the airport.

They’ve started doing this at the end of every season - once their team gets eliminated, or finishes out the season, they’ll all make their way up to the cabin that Eric bought years ago.

Jared comes up not much later.

Eric and Marc come, together, after the Rangers are eliminated.  Their plane doesn’t get in until 11:30.  They don’t get up to the cabin until almost 1.

Jeff, Jared, and Jordy are piled on the couch, some stupid comedy on the tv, when they see the headlights come in through the window.

Jeff jumps up, untangling his limbs from Jared and Jordy, and almost runs to the door.  He gets to it just as Eric swings it open.

“I missed you,” Jeff blurts out, falling into Eric’s arms, making him drop the bag he was holding.

It was hard, to suddenly be separated from one of his Doms right in the middle of the season.  He’d thought they’d at least have until the end of the season.  He’d _hoped_.

“I missed you, too,” Eric says, putting his arms around Jeff and holding him tightly.  “So much.   _So much_.”

Eric hadn’t gotten a chance to say that, before he left.  He hadn’t even gotten to kiss Jeff goodbye.  This is more emotion than Jeff thought he’d ever get out of him.

Once Eric lets go, Jeff looks around - sees Marc close behind Eric, a haggard look on his face, and Jordy and Jeff hovering in the doorway to the living room.  Jeff smiles and drops to his knees in the entryway, looking up at him.

“Fucking missed you,” Eric breathes, and fists his hand in Jeff’s hair.

Yeah, Jeff missed this.


	20. Backstrom/Ovechkin - fluff

It’s a task to sneak Alex out of the dressing room after the game, after the game where he scored his _500th goal_ , even after the press has gone, but Nicky manages it.  Of _course_  he does.  He’s not going to take Alex away from team celebrations, but he’s going to steal a couple minutes for himself in the empty room down the hall that’s reserved for concussion testing.

“Five hundred,” Nicky whispers, his hands on Alex’s cheeks, peppering kisses over his face.  “Five hundred goals.”

“I know, Nicky,” Alex says, giggling.  It’s weird to think of a man of Alex’s age and size giggling, but that’s the only word for it.  “I scored them.”

“I know you did.”  Nicky kisses him on the lips finally, the only way to really communicate the joy and pride and love he’s feeling.  He doesn’t know if he has the words for it.  He doesn’t know if he ever will, if the next milestone Alex reaches he’ll be able to find better words to tell Alex how proud he is.

“You’re coming out with the team?” Alex asks, his hands tight around Nicky’s wrists, where Nicky’s still holding his face.  He likes holding Alex’s face, right here at Nicky’s level.  He likes it just as much when Alex backs him up against the wall and holds him there, caged against Alex’s body.  Part of it is the knowledge that Alex would let him go the moment Nicky expressed a desire for it - part of it is not wanting to be anywhere else.

“Of course,” Nicky murmurs, kissing Alex again.  “It’s your celebration.  We’ll stay out as long as you want.”

“And if I want to stay out all night?”

“We don’t have a game for a couple days,” Nicky sighs.  “We can stay out all night.”

“And if I want you to dance with me?”

Nicky tries to glare at him, but when Alex starts kissing his cheek over and over again, he can’t help but laugh.  “Fine, fine!  I’ll dance with you.  Only one dance, though!”

They kiss again, Nicky’s hands sliding from Alex’s face so his arms loop around his neck, Alex backing him up against the wall and pressing him there.  They don’t let it go too far; they still have to get back to the team, after all.  But Nicky sinks into the feeling of Alex’s warm body against his, the gently press of his lips, Alex’s rough hands just barely sneaking up under his shirt.

Then, out in the hall they hear - “We need to find him fast, the shaving cream’s soaking into the towel!” and right after, “Willy, just because he pied you doesn’t mean you have to pie him.”

Nicky pulls back, rubbing his thumb along Alex’s jawline.  “You should go accept your pie.”

Alex heaves a melodramatic sigh.

Nicky giggles.  He doesn’t like to think he giggles, but he’s accepted it by now, that Alex can draw that kind of joy out of him.  “Remember to act surprised.”

Alex mutters something under his breath that Nicky can’t really make out, but he knows Alex well enough to guess, and to know that he’s not really serious about it.

One last peck on the lips, and Nicky pushes Alex out the door.  The door swings shut behind him, and Nicky hears Alex cry out, then a second later, “Noooooo, you got me!!!”

Nicky allows himself a smile, then pats down his hair and goes out into the hall.  The sooner they head out to the bar, the sooner he can get Alex home, all to himself.


	21. Backstrom/Ovechkin - All Star Nomination fluff

They’re on a road trip when they find out.  Alex thinks this is a shame, because he had a whole _thing_  planned.  There were balloons and streamers and everything.  He’d known that Nicky was going to get named to the All Star Game this year, especially with how well the team was doing, and ever since he himself was named as the captain, he’s been planning how to celebrate Nicky’s _first nomination_.  He knows that Nicky doesn’t want to make a huge deal out of it, but he also knows that  _he_  wants to make a huge deal out of it.

Nicky’s finally going to the All Star Game!  And Alex is going to be his captain there, too!

But after their game, he gets to do a little something, follow Nicky to his media scrum and introduce him, throw his arm around Nicky’s shoulders and shout, “All Starrrrrrr, Nicklas Backstrommmmmmm!”

Nicky laughs, and the glint in his eyes either means he thinks it’s funny or he’s going to murder Alex later.  But he’s obviously happy - about the game, and about the nomination - so Alex just squeezes him and then leaves him to the media.

Nicky finds him later, when they’re all filing onto the bus.  He slides up next to Alex, just using his presence to let Alex know he’s there, not touching him or saying anything.  Alex’s sixth sense is his hockey sense, but his seventh sense is his Nicky sense.

“You had something planned, didn’t you,” Nicky says, not a question.

“Of course,” Alex replies, grinning wide.  “With balloons.”

Nicky has a sour look on his face.  Maybe it’s better the announcement came out while they’re on the road.

“Joking, joking,” Alex says hastily.  “No balloons!”

Nicky rolls his eyes, nudging Alex over so he can get on the bus first.  “I know you have the balloons.  I found them when I was looking for towels last time I stayed over.”

Alex laughs, following Nicky onto the bus, and then into the row of seats Nicky selects.  “Did you find anything else?”

Nicky stares at him, his eyes narrowed like when they practice face offs against each other.  “Should I have?”

Alex pats Nicky's hand.  “Of course not.”

He could probably get the trainers to run out and get streamers before practice.  Nicky won’t see it coming.


	22. Backstrom/Ovechkin - fluff (again)

As soon as Nicky passed the puck back across the crease, he knew Alex was going to score.  He  _knew_.  And then he sees the flick of Alex’s wrists, the goal light flare to life, and Alex’s arms fly up in the air.

Nicky grins.  If he’s honest, this is how he wanted it to happen.  A Backy-and-Ovi play to get Alex that title: the greatest Russian-born goal scorer in NHL history.

He can see Alex’s eyes lock on him, and Nicky laughs, holding his arms out wide as he skates up.  They meet close to the glass, just the two of them.  Nicky presses his head to Alex’s, still smiling

“Knew you’d do it,” Nicky shouts in his ear, over the sirens, the goal song, the entire arena cheering _for Alex_.

“Thanks to you,” Alex shouts back.

Finally, Nicky realizes the rest of the guys on the ice should be there, too.  He pulls back - fighting against Alex’s hold on him - to look for the rest of the guys.  It’s like it’s a signal; Schmidty and Osh and Carly come crashing into them, shouting and cheering and Nicky’s so _happy_.

He carries that joy through the rest of the game, through the post-game - even though they lost - and hitting the bar after.  They have practice tomorrow, and a game the day after, so even if everyone wants to go hard to celebrate Alex’s record-breaking goal, they’ve got to hold back.

It means Nicky gets to take Alex home earlier than he’d be able to otherwise, which is definitely a plus.

Alex is definitely the drunker of the two of them, so Nicky drives.  Alex scrolls through his phone as they navigate DC traffic, and Nicky thinks he’s answering texts, up until Alex starts reading.

“The goal couldn’t have been easier for Ovechkin, coming in a familiar fashion with Nicklas Backstrom setting him up perfectly. Backstrom dropped a perfect backhanded pass across the crease to Ovechkin who simply had to slam it home,” Alex says, shooting a grin over at Nicky.

Nicky huffs a laugh, flicking his turn signal on for the Key Bridge.

“Ovechkin cruised in and took a pass from Backstrom for an effortless goal.”

Nicky rolls his eyes and switches lanes.

“That’s precisely what happened on Thursday night, as Ovechkin entered the fray in front of the net and redirected a feed from teammate Nicklas Backstrom into the back of the net.”

Nicky stops at a red light.  “Are you only reading the parts that mention me?”

Alex scoffs.  “Of course.”

“ _Alex_.”

“You’re my primary assist,” Alex croons, leaning in and kissing Nicky on the cheek with an obnoxious smack.

“It’s your goal, Alex.  I only passed it to you.   _You_ scored.”

“Our goal,” Alex says, prying Nicky’s hand off the steering wheel and holding it tightly.  “Like baby.”

Nicky flushes red, staring straight ahead at the street.

“There’ll be more,” Nicky promises quietly.  “More goals.”

“More babies,” Alex says.

Nicky rolls his eyes, but agrees, “More babies.”

Alex grins and takes out his phone again, continuing to scroll through it.

“Read some where they talk about you,” Nicky says.  “I want to hear about you.”

Alex laughs, but clicks into an article. “For now, Ovechkin is simply the greatest NHL goal-scorer in the history of his native country.”

Nicky squeezes Alex’s hand.  Sounds about right.


	23. Burakovsky/Holtby - TYS at 1 am

**#1: things you said at 1 am**

Andre’s just glad the airport has wifi.  He doesn’t mind fooling around on his phone, but after a while he starts to feel the tension gathering in his thumb and his wrist, and his laptop is so much easier to use.  Especially when there’s some delay on his flight back to DC from Worlds, and he’s not really sure how much longer he’ll be sitting here.

He sighs and checks twitter again.  Nothing new.  That’s not really surprising.  It’s 9 in the morning here, so it’s about 1 on the east coast of the US.  Even his friends scattered around Europe leave the social media time until the afternoon or evening, and everyone in the US is asleep or on their way there by now.

Skype dings, and a notification pops up in the corner.

 _Braden is online_.

Andre frowns, and is just about to send him a message, asking why he’s still asleep (Andre’s teased Braden about going to bed early like an old man enough to know that this is an anomaly) before the familair bubbly ringtone of a skype call rings out.

Andre scrambles to plug his headphones into his laptop and answers the call, tilting his screen back so Braden’ll be able to see his face.

“What’re you doing up?” Andre asks, too concerned to bother with a hello - he’ll see Braden as soon as he’s home from his flight, he can say hello then.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Braden replies, rubbing his palm over his eyes.

Andre makes a noise, sinking a little lower in his seat.  “Did you try tea?  And a bath?”

“Yes.  And yes.”

“And what, you were gonna lie in bed with all the lights off and let your laptop screen hurt your eyes?” Andre scolds.

Braden groans, his hair flopping listlessly over his forehead.  Andre tries to hold back a laugh, but he doesn’t really succeed.

“There’s a bag of tea in the back of that shelf next to the fridge, where you keep that weird syrup–”

“Molasses.”

“Weird syrup.   _Behind_  it, there’s tea.  My mama always gave it to me when I couldn’t sleep, with lemon and a little milk and honey.  You have to steep it for three minutes in your favorite mug,”

“You don’t need to take care of me.”

Andre waves a hand. “You should drink it on the couch, so you get all nice and cozy and then you can get and bed and go right to sleep.”

“Andre, really.  You don’t need to take care of me.”

Andre frowns, studying Braden through the screen for a moment.  There’s shadows under his eyes, that weren’t there when Andre left for Worlds, and he looks tired.  More tired than one night’s bad sleep warrants.

“I don’t _need_ to,” Andre replies thoughtfully.  “It’s… I want you to feel better.  And I know you need to sleep for that.  And my mama’s tea always helps me.”

Braden softens all at once, the same way he does when Andre rubs just the right spot between his shoulder blades or at the back of his neck.  “Yeah.”

“I’ll see you when I get home,”  Andre says, smiling at Braden.  “We can nap together.”

Braden smiles back.  “I’ll see you when you get home.”

They disconnect the call - and it takes Andre a moment to realize that Braden’s house is _home_ , that his mama’s tea has a special hiding place there just like it has in his own apartment, that there wasn’t even a question if he’d be going to his own apartment first.

He grins, and they call his flight for boarding.


	24. Burakovsky/Holtby - TYS with no space between us

**16: things you said with no space between us**

Braden didn’t think he was going to miss Andre this much.  Even when Andre was gone, Braden didn’t _really_  realize how much he missed him.  Now that he has Andre back in his arms, curled up in bed as the sun shines around the edges of the curtains, he can feel the empty space in his chest filling back up with the warmth that Andre’s presence always sends through him.

Andre’s still asleep, his curls tousled around his head, his lips parted slightly.  He’s got a hand curled in the front of Braden’s t-shirt, his fingers twitching every so often.  Braden lies there, quietly, and watches him.

Andre’s pretty relaxed normally, but Braden can see that extra little bit of tension that always seeps out of him when he’s asleep.  It only disappears a couple other times - when Andre’s subbing for him, when Braden’s got him tied up in their bed or tied down to the hooks set in the wall disguised by pictures and hanging plants.  He doesn’t really know what brings out that… discontent in Andre.  He hasn’t told Braden anything, and it doesn’t seem _bad_.

They have the summer to really figure each other out.  They had to do a sort of crash course during the season, work out just enough of the kinks in their relationship that they could make each other happy and keep from imploding.  It’s different, with the summer - too long of a summer - stretched out in front of them, with nothing but training and a couple media engagements to keep them occupied.

“I can hear you thinking,” Andre murmurs.  Braden blinks, staring into Andre’s half-open eyes.  He’s still relaxed, calm and pliant, but that tension’s back in the set of his mouth.

“It’s nothing,” Braden replies, his breath whispering over Andre’s lips.  He kisses Andre softly; Andre’s hand tightens in Braden’s shirt, and he makes a soft noise.  Not a protest, so Braden kisses him harder, his hand sneaking around Andre’s head and sliding through his curls.

“Did you have anything planned for today?” Braden asks, when he pulls back.  Andre’s breathing harder, his lips red and cheeks flushed.

“I just got back from Russia,” Andre replies, looking a little confused.

“I was thinking we could get lunch.”

Andre just smiles and presses closer.

“Farmers Fishers Bakers.  I…” Braden clears his throat.  “I made a reservation for us.”

Andre giggles.  “You hate going into Georgetown.”

“Georgetown’s fine, I just hate the parking,” Braden grumbles, rubbing his cheek against Andre’s.

“Why’re we going to Farmers Fishers Bakers then?”

“I know you like that place.”

Andre smiles; Braden can feel it pressed against him.

“And there’s that shop, at Wisconsin and N.”

Andre pulls back an inch, staring at Braden with wide eyes.  Braden licks his lips, his tongue almost catching Andre’s mouth with how close they are.

“I asked Backy where he went for Ovi’s collar.  He gave me a list of places to look, but he said that one’s the best.”

Andre’s face splits in a grin.  “We’re really going to look?”

“Of course,” Braden whispers.  “We’ll get lunch and then we’ll look for your collar.”

“Braden,” Andre murmurs, kissing Braden quickly, and then ducking in and kissing him again.  “ _Braden_.”

And that evening, when they stretch out on Braden’s couch, Andre’s new collar around his throat, that last little bit of tension is gone.


	25. Marner/Strome - insecure Mitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was requested by the anon that found the plot inconsistency in Isle of Flightless Birds (which has since be edited and no longer contradicts itself) - insecure Mitch with Dylan comforting him!

Mitch shouldn’t be this nervous about seeing Dylan again.  He really, really shouldn’t be.

Well – maybe just a little bit, because of the last time he saw Dylan in person.  Of course they skype and text and facetime all the time, but it’s not the same.  It’s easier to hold back some of that lingering tension between them when they’ve only got 20 minutes to stare at each other’s faces, and honestly it’s a lot more fun to jerk off with him than address how much of a douchebag he was.

So yeah, he’s really fucking nervous.

Like – Dylan and Connor folded Mitch into their relationship so easily, like they didn’t even need to stop and think about it.  What keeps them from dropping him with the same amount of ease?

“They like you,” Mitch mutters to himself, uncapping a Gatorade viciously.  “Dylan said he loves you.  Connor likes you, too.  That’s what’ll stop them.”

He takes a drink from the bottle and kicks the fridge closed.

“They’re not gonna just break up with you,” he says louder, grabbing an apple and the jar of peanut butter from the counter.  “You apologized and Dylan said he loved you and _specifically_ said he didn’t want to break up with you.  You can fuckin’ chill about it, dude.”

He steps into the living room and freezes.  Dylan’s sprawled out on the couch, a smile twisting his lips.

“Talking to yourself, Marns?” Dylan asks.

Mitch almost drops his apple.  “No,” he replies lamely.

Dylan stretches out on the couch and his shirt rides up, showing off the cut of his hips and the trail of hair leading down from his belly button.  Mitch snaps his gaze back up to Dylan’s face, and blinks at the soft look in his eyes.  Dylan holds out a hand wordlessly, and Mitch takes it, lying down on top of Dylan and resting his chin in the center of his chest.

“You weren’t really being that quiet, you know,” Dylan says, looping an arm around Mitch’s waist before Mitch can jump up.

“Shut up,” Mitch mutters, tilting his head and staring at the blank tv.

“Dude, you shut up.”

Mitch makes a noise and digs his fingers into Dylan’s side, making him spit out a curse.

“I’m just trying to be reassuring or whatever.”

“I don’t need reassurance,” Mitch says.

Dylan snorts.  “Fine, Marns.  You don’t want me telling you how much I love you?”

Mitch blushes, and ducks his head.  “Dyls.”

“Or how ecstatic I was when I got to see you lifting the Memorial Cup?”

“Even though we had to beat you?”

“At least you won it all,” Dylan says, leaning up to press a sloppy kiss to his temple.  “If the Otters couldn’t, I’m glad you could.”

“Just me?”

“Yeah, fuck the Knights.”

That startles a laugh out of Mitch.  Dylan giggles under him, his lips still pressed to Mitch’s skin.  

“Seriously, Mitch,” Dylan says quietly, once they’ve both gotten themselves under control again.  “If you think me or Connor’s gonna dump you…”

“I don’t know,” Mitch blurts out, still refusing to look at Dylan.  “It’s not that I think you’re not serious, or whatever.  I’ll get better about it.  It’s just – the two of you need each other, and you like me, you want me, whatever, but it’s not really the same, is it?”

Dylan sighs softly, pressing one of his hands between Mitch’s shoulder blades.  “I’m not gonna try to speak for Connor, but for me… fuck, Mitch, it’s not the same as with Connor, but is that bad?  Like, I love my parents, and Ryan and Matt, and Connor, and you, and, like, probably Brinksy, but all in different ways, okay?  You’re not Connor, so I’m not gonna feel the same way about you as I do about him.”

Mitch nods sharply, but Dylan continues.

“And Connor’s not you, so I’m not gonna feel the same way about him as I do about you.”

And that’s… it’s really only reversing that first statement, the one that Mitch always gets caught on, but it makes everything shift.  As much as Mitch isn’t Connor, Connor isn’t Mitch.  Why can’t there be enough room for both of them?

“Okay,” Mitch says, lifting his head up and looking down at Dylan.  Dylan smiles at him, and presses up for a kiss.  Mitch kisses him back gently, soaking in the warmth of Dylan’s body underneath him.

“Mariokart?” Mitch asks, when they break apart.

“Gonna kick your ass,” Dylan replies.

Mitch grins and kisses Dylan again, then leverages himself off the couch to dig out the controllers.

Dylan’s here, after all.  He’s here and not on a computer or phone screen.  He’s here and he loves Mitch and that’s all that Mitch really needs.


	26. Latta/Wilson - TYS when you were scared

“What do you think’s gonna happen?” Tom asks quietly.

Mike shifts his hold on Tom, so he has one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders, hand buried in Tom’s hair.

“They’re gonna sign you,” Mike says, just as quiet. “They’d be stupid to let you go.”

“They could trade one of us.”

“If they trade anyone they’ll trade me.”

Tom sighs and sinks against Mike.

Mike presses a kiss to Tom’s forehead. It’s a little sappy for them – but time’s ticking down until free agency starts, and neither of them have offer sheets from the Capitals. Since Mike Richards signed with them, Mike’s just been trying to soak in every minute he gets here, getting every second with Tom that he can until he gets sent away.

“I don’t want them to trade you,” Tom whispers.

Mike doesn’t want to be traded, either, but he’s not going to kid himself.

He’s – scared. He’s scared that they’re going to be separated, that maybe neither of them will stay in DC. Tom got consistent ice time, but that doesn’t mean too much on a team like this. There are a lot of teams that need a guy that can fight, that can energize the bench. They’d pay for him, too.

Mike’s not a player like that. Maybe a team’ll take him, as part of a package, or maybe the Caps’ll keep him and send him down to Hershey, just in case they need someone to cover for an injury or a suspension.

Mike knows he’s good enough to make it to the NHL, but not good enough to play that much.

“Seriously,” Tom says, pulling back enough to look at Mike. He looks serious – more serious than Mike thinks he’s ever seen him. “I don’t want to play away from you.”

“Me neither, Tommy,” Mike replies, kissing him gently.

“Mike,” Tom says again, pulling back. “I’ll – if they trade you, or me, or we have to sign somewhere else – I’ll quit. I’ll just—”

“No,” Mike tells him immediately. “I won’t let you. You’ve dreamt about playing in the NHL since you were three, Tommy, I won’t let you throw it away.”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Tom says loudly. He pushes away from Mike, fighting against the arms Mike still has around him. “I’d rather have you—”

“Tommy!” Mike shouts, grabbing hold of Tom’s hair and tugging until Tom falls silent, his mouth shutting with a click. “You’re not quitting the NHL. You’re not. If anything, I will. If it comes to that. But let’s just… there’s still time. We have weeks before free agency. Who knows what’ll happen, eh?”

“I don’t want—”

“I know, okay?” Mike says desperately, rolling over on top of Tom and pressing him into the bed. “Me, too, Tommy. I don’t want to play without you. I don’t want to spend 8 months apart. But we have to believe we’ll be together, okay?”

“Okay,” Tom says softly, staring up at him. “Yeah, okay.”

“Who knows, maybe they’ll decide to trade Richie instead of me.”

Tom snorts, and the cloud of tension around them evaporates. Mike settles against him again, his arms around his waist and shoulders, hand buried in Tom’s hair. He could be traded tomorrow, or maybe Tom, or maybe anyone else on the Capitals or in the entire NHL. He’s going to hold Tom as long and as tight as he can.


	27. Wilson/Latta - fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (written before latta's RMNB interview so suspension of everything surrounding the real events of his not receiving an offer, please)

Tom said he’d see Mike that night.  And really, that means as soon as Tom gets home from the grocery store.

He’d known Mike was upset about not playing enough, or at all.  He’d known that was Mike’s hardest point in re-negotiating his contract with the Caps.  He’d known Mike was going to be on a conference call with his agent and Caps management today.

He still wasn’t really expecting it when Mike called him, when he was comparing apples, and started the call by saying, “I’m leaving.  I told them.”

He gaped down at the gala apple in his hand.  “You’re…”

“They didn’t offer me more of a place.  It was the same fucking–” Mike cuts himself off with a sigh.  “I’m not going back to DC.”

“Latts,” Tom says quietly.

“You can still, y’know, take your time.  At the store.  Just wanted you to know.”

“I’ll go fast,” Tom promises.

“No, that’s– Take your time.”

He sounds choked up, and Tom realizes… Mike didn’t want to leave.  Tom knows that.  But he’s also a hockey player, and he wants to _play_.  Tom can’t begrudge him that.  Mike’s upset, of course he is, that he’s forced to choose playing over staying with Tom - a choice that Tom would have made, too - and he needs a bit of time to work through it on his own.

Tom takes his time at the store.  He takes a while deciding on which pasta shape to buy.  He compares the different peanut butters, even though they always get Skippy super chunk.  He considers buying 2% milk instead of 1%, but decides to go with 1% in the end.  He gets some turkey fresh-sliced at the deli counter instead of picking up the pre-sliced bag.

When he gets in the car, he has a twitter notification from Mike.  He tweets something out, too, trying not to sound too affected, just like a friend and roommate that’ll miss his buddy.

He cries, for a moment, just a little, before he wipes his eyes and buckles it down and drives home to Mike.

Mike’s on the couch, tv on, blanket pulled over his lap.

“I got those weird pretzels you like,” Tom says, dropping the bag in Mike’s lap.

“They’re not weird, they’re honey wheat,” Mike mutters, but he opens the bag and digs out a handful.

Tom counts it as a victory.  He brings the rest of the groceries into the kitchen, and puts them away.  Then he grabs a couple beers and goes back into the living room.

“I sort of expected everything to change,” Mike says, when Tom sits next to him on the couch.  “I don’t know why I did.”

“Because everything’s changing for you,” Tom replies.   _And me_ , he doesn’t say, but Mike looks over at him and he knows.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Mike tells him.  “I don’t even know where I’ll be - how far away–”

“Can we just,” Tom interrupts.  Mike stops.  “Can we just drink some beer and watch cartoons and pretend your conference call’s tomorrow?”

Mike sags, half into the couch and half against Tom.  “Yeah, Tommy.”

Tom slips an arm around Mike’s shoulders, pulling him a little closer.

“What do you wanna watch?” Tom asks, pulling up netflix.  “We’ve still got some episodes of Bob’s Burgers to get through.”

“Sounds good,” Mike says, taking one of the beers from the coffee table.

Tom presses play and leans more against Mike, stealing half of the blanket like he would on any other day.

“I’ll cook dinner tonight,” Tom says, after a moment.

“Let’s order something,” Mike replies.  “Don’t want you to have to get up.”

_Don’t want you to go away._

“Chinese,” Tom decides.

“Thai.”

“It’s my turn to pick.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is, you picked pizza last weekend.”

“Fine,” Mike huffs.  Tom looks at him, and ruffles Mike’s hair.  “Tom, stop it!”

Tom doesn’t.  He needs to get all his hair ruffles in now, before the season starts up again.

Their season just ended - too early - and he already feels like the next season’s crushing in on him, bellowing _are you ready_  into his face.

Mike scowls up at him, and Tom kisses him quickly, gently, only deepening it when Mike presses back against him.

He needs to squeeze in all his kisses, too.


	28. Wilson/Latta - TYS with too many miles between us

“Don’t even tell me how warm it is in LA,” Tom groans, wrapped up in his comforter in bed.

Mike’s sprawled out on a deck chair on the little balcony of his apartment.  “About 75, I think.”

Tom groans again, and burrows more under his covers.  And yeah, he has the heater on, but it never gets his and Andre’s new place warm enough.  Maybe Tom just got too used to curling up in bed with Mike, Human Furnace.

Mike’s grinning when Tom looks at his laptop again, their skype call still going.

Since they had to split up to go to their (different) training camps, they’ve skyped almost every day.  It’s nice, to just open up his laptop and go about his business at home, with Mike doing the same on his side of the screen, on the other side of the country.  It’s better than having Mike on facetime, because looking back from the stove to the kitchen island and seeing Mike’s face, bigger than just a couple inches, tugs something inside him.

It’s almost like having him back in DC.

“Working on your tan?” Tom asks, catching sight of Mike’s bare shoulders.

Mike laughs and pushes the computer a little further away, so Tom can see his thick arms, his chest and stomach, all glowing near-golden in the sun.

Mike’s always going to be a good canadian boy that stays a little too pale, but the California sun looks good on him.

“You’re gonna look like milk when I’m there next month,” Mike teases.

“You’re gonna be a lobster,” Tom shoots back.  Mike throws his head back and laughs, hat nearly sliding off his head.  When he turns his grin back on the laptop, his sunglasses are almost to the end of his nose.

“Is that the quilt we picked out last year?” Mike asks, a little softer.

“Yeah,” Tom replies, pulling it closer around his shoulders.

Tom can’t really tell what Mike’s face is doing, not without seeing his eyes, and the sunglasses are preventing that.  But he seems almost - wistful.

Tom had offered any of the furniture from their place that Mike wanted.  He told Mike he could take any of the towels, pictures, sheets, mugs, or plates he wanted.  Tom got to keep DC; the least he could do was let Mike bring a little bit of DC with him.  But Mike had said no, and bought all his own stuff for his place in LA,only taking one of Tom’s shirts that Tom knew he always wanted, and one of the pictures of them together that they’d had on Tom’s dresser.

Tom has all the other reminders of their relationship.  He has the ping pong table, and the cafe they went to for their first date, and the restaurant they wet to for their first anniversary.  He has Backy and Ovi and - everything else.

“When’re you getting in for the game?” Tom asks, mouth half-covered by the quilt.  He doesn’t need to specify which game.

Mike’s face falls.  “We’re playing in Philly the afternoon before, we won’t get in until…”

Tom knows.  He asks, just about every other day, just in case the answer’s changed.  Just in case - fuck, lightning strikes in Philly and burns down their arena and all the games for the rest of the season get rescheduled and the Kings’ll spend a couple days in DC, instead.

“When’re you leaving after?” Tom asks.

A smile twitches at Mike’s lips.  “Not until the next morning.”

That’s the advantage of afternoon games, and having the next day game-free.  Tom knows that answer, too, but he has to ask it, every time, because they can’t see each other before the game, but they have the _whole night_  together.  And of course the rest of the Caps’ll want to see Mike, too, and Tom’s sure they’re going to wind up getting drinks or something with everyone, but that’s okay because they have _the entire rest of the night._

It’s nothing compared to the time they had together last season, but - 

“And they’re gonna let you skip out on curfew?”

Mike nods.  “Yeah, Cartsy said he’d cover for me.”  He shrugs, and the muscles in his shoulders ripple.  “I don’t think anyone expects me to _not_  stay with you, really.”

Tom smiles at Mike, and Mike smiles back.  Sometimes views like this flash through Tom’s mind - he’ll be grocery shopping, or doing laundry, or anything, really, and he’ll just see Mike, Mike smiling, Mike laughing.  He could probably say some really sappy things about all that, and he probably will, one day soon, when the distance gets to be a little too much.

“You wearing any pants out there?” Tom asks, pushing the quilt away from his face so Mike can see his grin in full effect.  “You know other people can see you.”

Mike chuckles and shakes his head.  “I know, Tommy.  I got shorts on.”

Tom huffs a laugh.  “Maybe you should head inside and take those shorts off for me.”

The video feed on Tom’s laptop jumps, as Mike grabs his computer and heads inside.  Tom pushes the quilt down a little, not feeling quite as cold as he had been before.

“Hurry up, Mikey,” Tom teases.  “Don’t wanna miss anything because you’re not looking at your computer.”

Mike growls, a little, deep in his throat.  The sound barely carries through to Tom’s side of the call.

When they’re like this, Tom thinks Mike understands all the sappy things Tom thinks (and might even say).  Staring at the fire and the longing in Mike’s eyes when he finally settles with his laptop on his bed, Tom thinks Mike feels a little the same.


	29. Strome/Marner - TYS when you asked me to marry you

Dylan’s gonna fuck it up.  He’s _really, really_  gonna fuck it up.

“It’s such a good idea, Stromer,” Dylan mimics in a falsetto that, realistically, sounds nothing like Connor.  “There’s n _ooooo_  way he’ll say no!”

“Are you trying to be Connor?” Mitch asks from behind Dylan, and Dylan jumps.  He turns fast, nearly dropping the mixing bowl in his hands.

“What the fuck,” Dylan blurts out.  Mitch raises an eyebrow.  “You’re supposed to be out with Connor.”

Mitch nods slowly.  “Yeah, he was being super shifty, so I got Eks to call him and ditched.”

 _Dammit, Connor_.

But that would also explain why Aaron had closed out of their skype call and abandoned Dylan to muddle through the rest of the brownie recipe on his own.

(Peanut butter brownies.  Mitch’s favorite.  Because Dylan’s a fucking _romantic_ , okay?)

“You making something?” Mitch asks, stepping closer and dipping a finger into the brownie batter.

“Hey!” Dylan protests, but Mitch just sticks the finger in his mouth.

“What’s up with you?” he mumbles around his finger, then pulls it out and licks off the last bit of batter.  “Mmm, peanut butter.”

“Nothing,” Dylan says hurriedly, turning to start spooning the brownie batter into the pan.  He doesn’t need to grease it, right?  Aaron hadn’t said anything about greasing it.

“Who’re the brownies for?”

“Not you!”

Mitch doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, Dylan glances over his shoulder.  Mitch is looking a little upset, a little confused, his mouth twisted down.

“Those are love brownies,” Mitch says, a touch of petulance in his voice.

Oh, shit.

“Mitch–”

“Who’re they for?” Mitch asks, arms crossing over his chest.  Dylan’s eyes are drawn to his shoulders, pulling now at his thin t-shirt, and the bulge of his arms.  Off-season training’s been good to Mitch.

“I can’t tell you,” Dylan says desperately.

Mitch huffs.  “Fine, then.  Guess I’ll go see if Domi’s still around.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“They’re for you,” Dylan says, stepping forward to grab Mitch’s arm.  “I’m - It was supposed to be a surprise.  That’s why Connor was keeping you out.  They were supposed to be done when you got home.”

Mitch turns to him, still frowning a little.  But he’s not pulling away.

“Why’re you making me brownies?”

“Marry me,” Dylan says, instead.  That wasn’t what he meant to say, but, when Mitch’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open in a little bit of a gasp, he can’t regret it.  “I mean - Mitch, will you marry me?”

He drops down to one knee right there in the kitchen, covered in flour and still in his pajama pants, Mitch in a t-shirt and basketball shorts.

“Are you serious?” Mitch asks, hand still loosely in Dylan’s.  “This isn’t - you’re not trying to cover up some weird three-way thing with Eks and Connor, right?”

Dylan digs in the pocket of his pants and pulls out the ring box, flicking it open so Mitch can see the simple band inside.

“Fuck,” Mitch whispers.  “Dyls–”

“Marry me,” Dylan says again.

“Of course,” Mitch replies, like he doesn’t even need to think about it, and swoops down to kiss Dylan.

(Later, they have to tell both their parents the story of how they got engaged.  Dylan thinks it would’ve been a much better story if it’d gone the way he planned - lighting some candles and laying out the brownies on a tray in a heart shape, and asking Mitch, then feeding him brownies bite by bite before he finally kisses all the chocolate and peanut butter out of his mouth.  But he guesses that being accused of hiding a three-way relationship with two of their friends and trying to make Mitch consolation brownies to break up with him is an okay story, too)

**Author's Note:**

> There're rambly world-building things I post on tumblr in response to asks that won't be going up here FYI
> 
> join me in sin on tumblr @ somethingnerdythiswaycomes


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